


This Much I Know

by cuckleberrywish



Series: This Much I Know [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuckleberrywish/pseuds/cuckleberrywish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes from a happy life. </p><p>Or less theatrically:</p><p>Silly little ficlets inspired by the Buzzfeed list '21 Things Girl-Boy Best Friends Just Get.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Parts I, II

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of ficlets I decided to write after I saw a list on Buzzfeed about best friends of opposite sexes. Each ficlet is inspired by a part of the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel of sorts to A Lesson in How Fleeting Preservation Is.

## 1\. Every potential S.O. must go through a screening process before either of you gets emotionally involved.

The official meeting does not entirely go as planned. But still, it could’ve been worse.

“Shaun Temple,” Shaun greets, thrusting his hand out jovially and the Doctor eyes the hand distastefully as if he’d been offered a bit of rotting food. Donna glowers at the Doctor from her throne at the kitchen table and he begrudgingly shakes the proffered appendage.

“The Doctor.”

Shaun snorts. “You’re kidding… Of what?”

“Oh, this and that,” the Doctor sighs and resolutely turns his back to Shaun to continue fiddling with a squeaky drawer beneath the kitchen counter.

“I’m going to fix that,” Shaun says self-consciously.

There’s a whir, a blue light, and a clicking noise.

“Done,” the Doctor says smugly, twirling his sonic before he tucks it back into his jacket pocket. Donna’s still glaring but can’t help but laugh. They’re like little boys fighting over a toy, though she’s a more than a little miffed to be the toy in this scenario. Donna Noble is no one’s _toy_.

“Oi, Shaun, give us a hand bringing the bags down, will you?”

Shaun ambles off, grumbling good-naturedly, and disappears with an armful of luggage in hand.

“I don’t like him,” the Doctor pronounces as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“You haven’t said five words to him!”

“Well I don’t approve,” the Doctor whines. “He can’t even properly fix your furniture.”

“Oh he does just fine _fixing my furniture_ ,” Donna smirks and she enjoys the way the Doctor’s ears go bright red. The Doctor huffs out a sigh and fixes her with a beady gaze.

“He makes you happy?”

She smiles wanly and nods.

“He took care of me when you… when you weren’t here.”

She sees his shoulders stiffen. It’s the first time either one of them has mentioned the metacrisis since she’d agreed to return. She supposes they’ll have to talk about it eventually, but she can’t bear the idea of puncturing their blissful bubble quite yet.

“I suppose that’s what matters,” he mutters and her smile warms.

“But if he does something stupid like flying us into a black hole or jumping into space, I’m not going after him,” the Doctor declares, grabbing her remaining bags in each hand and disappearing out the door.

* * *

 

## 2\. It is an unspoken rule that if one of you needs the other, all plans are dropped immediately.

Since Donna’s arrival, the Doctor’s mornings have become a comfortable sort of routine. She ambles off to bed and he doesn’t sleep much, tinkering away happily beneath the console to pass the time. Eventually Donna stumbles in, her pyjamas wildly rumpled, bright hair impossibly knotted, rubbing sleep from her eyes and grumbling under her breath about noisy martians interrupting her rest. He’s learned by now not to bother her until she’s had time to consume at least several gallons of coffee. Then they sit together in the kitchen and plan their day and her eyes sparkle when he makes her laugh, even if it’s by doing something daft like singeing off bits of his eyebrows while he’s frying the bacon. He loves their mornings. 

Today though, it’s been exactly 10 hours and 12 minutes since she’d bid him goodnight and she’s no where to be found. Donna is hardly an early riser, but she’s usually poked her head in by now.

He has an excellent plan for the day, if he does say so himself. They’ve had a distress call from a lonely planet situated far out in the Yuklin asteroid belt and he’s sure they’ll sort that out in time to get to early 19th century Yorkshire for a nice lunch in the countryside with some minor gentry. If they don’t get shot or arrested (admittedly, a big _if_ ), it’s going to be a brilliant day.

_And she’s ruining it._

He resists the urge to stamp his foot on the grated floor like a petulant toddler but only just.

He sighs and slithers out from beneath the time rotor, narrowly missing cracking his skull on the edge of console as he carefully disentangles himself from the bowels of his ship. He rises gracefully to his feet meanders down a corridor off the console room and toward her bedroom.

“Donnaaaaa,” he calls happily, rapping sharply on her door. “We’ve got things to do, places to be!” He tries her doorknob to no avail.

“Donna?”

He hears some rustling.

“Doctor er… why don’t you… can you come back later?” Her voice sounds strained.

“But Donna the Yuklinians need us!”

"Another day!"

"But Donna, the-" 

“ _They can bloody well wait_!” she screeches suddenly, her voice breaking at the end.

He jumps a little, and jiggles the knob. "Donna are... is everything okay?"

There's a pause. "...Yes," she answers finally in a small voice, and then he hears a plaintive sniffle that cleaves his hearts in two. He hates the idea of her crying by herself. 

“I’m coming in!” he announces, and sonics her door so that it flies open with a bang. She jumps. “For goodness sake,” she sighs, eyeing him dolefully. 

She’s still in bed, curled up in a cocoon of sheets, her head pillowed on her arm. She's rubbing at her wet cheeks vigorously but he doesn’t miss the tear-washed brightness of her eyes or the streaky tracks still down her face.

“Are you okay?”

The answer is so obviously no the Doctor wants to smack himself for even asking. She nods and then her eyes fill with tears and slowly she shakes her head.

“Oh Donna,” the Doctor murmurs, and picks his way across her room to sit down next to her on her bed, stroking her sodden fringe off her forehead. “Oh Donna,” he says again because he doesn't quite know what to do. 

She grips the bottom of his jacket in her fists and scrunches her eyes shut but wetness still leaks from beneath her tightly clamped lids. Donna lets go of him with one hand and reaches beneath the duvet, producing a lumpy brown cable-knit jumper.

“It’s my dad’s,” she whispers. “I found it in my things and it... it still smells like him.”  

She presses her face into the fabric and inhales deeply, her back shaking with a fresh wave of tears. The Doctor doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything, just scoops her up best he can, jumper, bedclothes and all and wraps himself around her, gently stroking her back as she clings to him and sobs.

He doesn’t know how long he sits with her, murmuring comforting nonsense and letting her cry herself out. He’s never seen her mourn her father. He suspects she didn’t want him to, preferring to hole up in her room alone with her grief. But now despair pours off her in waves and it’s all he can do to keep from crying himself.

She sniffles and finally un-buries her head, fixing him with a watery smile. “Y’know in primary school I was suspended for biting?”

“I’d heard something of the sort,” he responds, his lips quirking.

“Of course mum wouldn’t listen to me, but they were making fun of me. Called me carrot top. Made fun of my freckles.” She sighs and her eyes grow wistful. “Mum shouted and shouted and the whole time my dad had this funny little smile on and after she’d shouted herself hoarse my dad came up to me and said, ‘that’s my girl, you defend yourself, love.’ Just like that. He hugged me. And he told me I should try doing it with my words and not my teeth but that I should never let them bully me.”

The Doctor smiles. “He sounds like a wonderful man.”

“Yeahh,” Donna breaths, and leans her head back on his chest with another heavy sigh.

The Doctor squeezes her hand and then extricates himself from her grip, standing up and making his way to the other side of the bed. He pummels a thoroughly smooshed pillow into shape and then lays down, sprawling out next to her and pointedly ignoring her bemused expression.

“Tell me more about him,” he says quietly.

Donna smiles softly, tucking herself neatly into his side, and begins to speak.

For her, Yuklin can wait.

 


	2. III

## 3\. If one of you doesn’t want to do something alone, the other is obligated to go along.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Donna enunciates, more emphatically. The Doctor’s head pops out from beneath the console.

“No need for language like that,” he says primly.  

He gets an envelope chucked at his face for that and then he realizes she wants him to read it and isn’t just trying to give him a paper cut to the eyeball.

He scans the contents of the envelope quickly and looks up at her from the floor.

“So?”

“ _So..._ I don’t want to go!”

“Then don’t!”

“I have to!”

"Why?"

"Because I do!" 

The Doctor is once again left pondering the inner workings of Donna’s mind and this mysterious code of behavior by which she abides. The invitation seems innocuous enough: bold letters invite Donna (plus one) to some bloke called Steve’s 50th birthday party.

“Who’s Steve?” he asks, and she huffs out a breath like it’s an idiotic question.

“My uncle!”

“Your mother’s brother?”

“My mother’s youngest sister’s husband!” she shouts exasperatedly. He’s not sure how he was supposed to know that, but she certainly does seem frustrated with him. She paces back in forth, upside down from his vantage point lying on his back beneath the console, her lips moving feverishly. She stops suddenly, her eyes lighting up.

“But… oh!”

“Oh?” he asks.

“ _OH!_ ” she exclaims, and suddenly he finds himself being yanked up from the beneath the console by his collar. He stumbles, spluttering, to his feet and indignantly straightens his jacket, frowning at her. Fleetingly, he thinks he almost preferred it when she was a little frightened of him.

“You’ll come with me!”

“I’ll _what_?”

“Of course! You’ll come with me and ward off all the awkward questions, ‘ _Donna, why aren’t you married? Donna are you seeing anyone? Donna why’s your hair a bit green–_ ’”

“Sorry about that, should fade in a week or so,” he interjects sheepishly.

“–well you’ll be there, you’ll be my dashing… er–” she appraises him up and down and he feels distinctly uncomfortable, “my… present, anyway, living, breathing distraction and answer to all things ‘ _what the hell happened to our least favorite niece_?’!”

“Hang on–”

“Oh please, Doctor,” she cajoles, yanking on his hand. “Please say you’ll go. I can’t bear it by myself. They all think I’m useless, my mum’s family. Please?”

The Doctor sighs. He can never resist her for long.

A couple hours later when Donna arrives at the party, she’s brought along a handsome young doctor and tales of her travels to the most exotic of places.

And the Doctor enjoys every second of it.


	3. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am skipping the fourth item on the list because I think it's a little silly that buzzfeed assumes grown men don't understand the concept of a tampon. 
> 
> I don't know about "unnecessarily graphic" because I don't think that would really suit the Doctor and Donna's relationship but without further ado...

## 5\. And you regularly discuss sex in ~~unnecessarily graphic~~ detail.

 

“Do you lot… mate?” Donna asks one day when they’re sprawled out on the kitchen floor next to each other, having each consumed at least two too many of Donna's (excellent, in her opinion) Harvey Wallbangers. Donna wishes she could say it was the first time they’d ended up here, but the prospect of the cold, hard linoleum is sometimes just a little too tempting after they’ve been drinking. The Doctor snorts.

“Do we _what_?”

“Y’know–” She gestures crudely with her fingers and he blushes.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” he says, and grabs for her glass. She rolls her eyes.

“Oh go on… is it like humans? Do you chop off a chunk and grow a little Time Lordy seedling from it?”

He giggles fondly and wrings his head back and forth. “I don’t know how you think of these things.”

Donna grins at him. She loves him like this, all relaxed and unwound, his tie askew and shirt half untucked from his trousers. They’d had an exhausting day shuttling  refugees between war zones and they both just need a laugh.

And they do laugh. Donna makes to swipe her drink back from him and he waves it above her head and in the process dumps half of it on himself. She laughs so hard her sides ache and thinks they’re not nearly as drunk as they’re acting but they’re just having the best time anyways.

It takes a little while for the Doctor to remember her question and he screws up his eyes like he’s been asked something very difficult.

“What, you don’t remember how to do it?” she taunts.

“Oh _I remember_ ,” he answers, bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. She punches him lightly on the shoulder and he laughs.

They’re silent for a little while, and Donna studies the ceiling. The TARDIS has gone through so much trouble making them a homey little kitchen on board down to the flowered wallpaper and little window above the sink.

“Have you shagged any of your companions?” she asks the room at large.

The Doctor starts choking on his drink and helpfully, she thumps him on the back.

“ _What_?! I… of course I– n-none of your business!”

Donna’s feeling terribly smug at having flustered him so badly.

“So that’s a yes then.”

“Yes! No! I don’t know! No more questions!”

He sounds absolutely scandalized, his face turning an alarming shade of purple.

“So it’s been centuries for you then, has it?” she asks, patting his arm sympathetically and blissfully unaware of how close the Doctor’s head is to exploding.

“That must be why you’re all tetchy all the time–”

“I’m not–” he blusters, stumbling over his words, “I’m not _tetchy_ and I’ve had just as much sex as the next bloke– Time Lo– whatever–”

He cuts off because she’s sat up suddenly, the room spinning at a dizzying speed as she jabs a finger into his bony chest. “I knew it!” she screeches. “You lured me onto your spaceship and now you’re going to have your wicked way with me!”

She watches him for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like some sort of dim-witted fish as he spectacularly fails to find words. It’s not fair, her teasing him like this when he’s pissed.

She lets him squirm for a little while longer until it looks like his respiratory bypass might kick in and then she throws back her head and cackles, that annoying laugh she hates but he tells her he loves and then she looks at him like he’s gone a bit soft in the head.

Right now, he’s looking at her like _she’s_ gone a bit soft in the head and that just makes her laugh harder.

“You’re awful,” he groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair as she drops back to the floor and nestles her head on his shoulder. She nods happily and he throws an arm around her shoulders.

“Awful,” he says again, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

Her laughter subsides and they’re silent for a little while. She studies the ceiling tiles again and the little fleur-de-lis pattern just beneath a windowpane. The TARDIS really is remarkable.

“I haven’t though,” he says matter-of-factly after a little while.

“You what?” Donna murmurs distractedly.

“I haven’t, as you put it, shagged any of my companions.”

Donna’s mildly surprised and more than a little doubtful and it must show on her face because he jostles her shoulder gently and says, “I haven’t! I swear!”

“Why not?”

The Doctor sighs and looks pensive a moment.

“Would have felt too much like taking advantage, I suppose. It would cheapen my motives, I think, wouldn’t it?” He scrunches up his face in that way that she thinks is absolutely adorable but would never tell him.

“I suppose,” Donna agrees. “Have you ever wanted to?”

She sees his eyes darken.

“Never seemed the right time,” he mutters.

She decides to leave it at that, doesn’t want to chase him into those dark little corners of his mind he seems to go to when she leaves him by himself for too long. She settles more comfortably onto his shoulder thinking if it weren’t for the ache of her hip against the hard floor she could almost fall asleep like this.

“What about you, Donna Noble?” he asks in a would-be shy tone were it not for the positively lascivious grin now curling his lips.

“I can assure you _I_ haven’t slept with any of my companions,” she giggles and then frowns. “Well not the… traveling-round-time-and-space… sort…”

He shakes his head. "You know what I mean." 

“Nah, after Lance…” Donna trails off but he seems to understand, reaching down to squeeze her hand gently.

“Everything he said about you,” the Doctor murmurs, “it was complete bollocks. The lot of it. If he couldn’t see you as you really are, he didn’t deserve to have you.”

Donna smiles wanly and bites her lip. He’s gazing at her so earnestly it makes her heart clench. She dreads the day he’ll figure out she’s not nearly as brilliant as he thinks.

“You’re loud and bossy and annoying and I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he announces after a pause and much to her chagrin tears spring to her eyes. He knows her so well he subtly averts his gaze, giving her time to wipe them away unnoticed.

As she lies with him on the kitchen floor with his unkempt hair and his crooked nose and his daft, earnest grin, she lets her eyes flicker closed and thinks she wouldn’t have him any other way either.


	4. VI

## 6\. You always call each other out on emotional bullshit.

After Martha leaves, the Doctor hardly says a word. Stony-faced, he throws the dematerialization lever and flings himself down on the jump seat. Donna can tell he’s working himself into a fine brood.

Really, he’s just too predictable.

She sighs and sits down next to him, watching his internal angst play out clearly in his features. He’s never had much of a poker face, thank goodness. She reaches up to rub his back soothingly and waits for him to speak.

“I ruined her life,” he mutters, his fists clenched.

“Oh, _bollocks_ ,” Donna expels. He looks up at her suddenly like she’s grown another head.

“What?!”

“You didn’t _ruin her life_ you angsty Martian teenager,” she says exasperatedly. “Look at her! A proper doctor, not like _you_ –” his lips quirk at that, “And engaged to a wonderful man and saving the world! How on earth do you consider her life ruined? That’s a bit insulting to her, frankly.”

The Doctor sighs. “But the Valiant…”

“Doctor you’ve _got_ to move on. Yes, you’ve cocked it all up royally and probably will continue to do so, knowing you. But don’t waste your pity and self-hatred on Martha. Martha is great. And the better for having known you.”

“Hang on, I’ve ‘ _cocked it all up royally and will continue to do so_ ’?!” the Doctor crows suddenly.

Donna rolls her eyes. “Trust you to pick up on that bit. Not the bit about the… Martha… and the better off... knowing you…” she grumbles.

He laughs and leans his head on her shoulder with a resigned sigh. “I s’pose you’re right.”

“Yes. I am,” she states evenly, earning another chuckle. “Really, Martha’s only major failing as a human being was that for some inconceivable reason she fancied _you_.”

“If I didn’t have such healthy self-esteem, that might hurt,” the Doctor says, still chortling.

“Yes, thank goodness for small miracles,” Donna retorts drily.

They’re silent for a moment, the gentle wash of the Doctor’s breath against her hair lulling her into comfort.

“Why _don’t_ you fancy me?” the Doctor asks, slightly mournfully, after a while.

Donna huffs out a sigh. “Nope. Not today, Martian. We’ve hit and exceeded our melodrama quota. Up you get.”

She hops up from the jump seat and yanks him up by his wrist.

“But–”

“Noooo,” she trills. She tugs him down the corridor.

“What are we doing?”

“Something nice and mindless,” she says.

A few moments later they’re planted in front of a massive television watching Monty Python and the Doctor is thankfully too busy laughing to ask anymore angst-ridden and/or relationship-altering questions.

Just the way Donna likes it.


	5. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donna has an iPhone. The Doctor went to the future and bought her an iPhone. Duh.

## 7\. And you’ve definitely constructed texts on each other’s behalves before.

Somewhere, perched on the console, Donna’s mobile is having a fit.

Donna herself is pointedly ignoring her persistently-buzzing telephone, preferring instead to idly paint her nails, her hip cocked against a coral strut for balance.

“Donna?” the Doctor chirps, when the mobile nearly buzzes itself right off the console.

“Mm?” Donna murmurs distractedly.

“You going to… y’know… attend to your telephone?”

“Don’t think so, no.”

Her expression is just a little too forcefully casual and the Doctor’s curiosity is piqued. He can’t help it if this regeneration is a bit nosey.

He sidles up to the time rotor, glancing at the screen of the mobile as if by accident. Nerys’s name is flashing back at him, not once, but 27 times.

“Donnaaa?” the Doctor calls innocently, and Donna grunts in response.

“Why is Nerys texting you so persistently?”

Donna shrugs with the same forced nonchalance and makes a noncommittal sound in her throat, continuing to study her nails.

Well, the Doctor can’t be blamed for snooping _now,_ not when his lovely companion is being so unforthcoming. Keeping his eyes trained on Donna, he slides his hand along the edge of the console until Donna’s phone hits the grating with a clatter.

“Oops!” he exclaims, exaggeratedly, and ducks beneath the console definitely _not_ with the intention of reading Donna’s texts in relative private. He swipes his hand across the screen and scrolls to the beginning of the conversation, his eyes quickly scanning the text.

What seems to have begun the barrage of textual communication is a picture Donna had sent out to a few different numbers. It’s a photo of her and the Doctor, standing on some remote beach somewhere (he himself immediately recognizes Pleinhorn III, but he suspects the average human can’t identify planets from the specific gradient of the horizon), looking freckly and happy and just the tiniest bit sunburnt in front of a pristine aqua-marine ocean. They’re holding hands and Donna’s laughing, her face cast toward the cloudless sky. It’s a lovely, joyful picture, that they’d gotten a four-armed alien to take before they’d left. He adores that very human impulse in Donna, that desire to create tangible memories of their travels.

Beneath the picture, Donna has written, “Having a wonderful time at the beach!” It seems inoffensive enough to the Doctor, and most of the replies suggest as much, but then there’s Nerys.

Nerys’s replies begin with “Who’s that bloke?” and get decidedly less polite from there, finally insinuating Donna is paying for male company and couldn’t possibly get such a good looking man as the Doctor. Admittedly, the Doctor is a little flattered, but tries to squash the emotion in light of Nerys’s treatment of Donna.

He’s too engrossed in the one-sided conversation to notice the sound of Donna’s footsteps approaching until she’s right next to him.

“What the hell are you doing?” she screeches right in his ear, snatching her mobile from his fingers. He flinches away from the sudden volume and rises to his feet.

“She’s being awful to you!” he exclaims.

Donna gives a short, humorless laugh. “What else is new?”

“But she’s being really, really awful!” the Doctor insists.

“Why do you think I’m ignoring her?”

The Doctor shakes his head and seizes her mobile back. “This has gone on long enough.”

His fingers start tapping away and it takes a second for Donna to realize what he’s doing. When she does she makes a desperate grab for her mobile, which he deflects expertly, spinning around the console room away from her.

“And…. _send_!” he announces, throwing her phone back to her. She gives him a withering look from beneath her fringe and flicks through to find what he’s written.

 

_Dearest Nerys,_

_Donna is indisposed at the moment as she is lounging in the nude with her gorgeous flatmate (me) who adores her and plans to be with her indefinitely. I suggest you cease communication with her until such a time when you can be understanding and supportive of her._

_Thanks ever so much,  
_ _Donna’s best mate/life partner_

 

He sees her face go from red to white and then straight past red again to a highly questionable shade of puce.

“I can’t believe you’ve just done this,” Donna says faintly, collapsing on the jump seat.

“She deserved it!”

“No I really… I can’t believe…” she trails off, her head in her hands.

The Doctor falters. He thought at the very least she’d find it funny. “What d’you mean?” he asks, concerned.

“You don’t understand, Doctor, my _mother_ is in this group text.”

“Your… your mother…” he stutters weakly.

This time she does laugh, and he knows it’s because the color drains from his face so quickly he feels his cheeks tingle. The Doctor has faced Cybermen and Daleks and creatures too horrifying to mention and he’s defeated them all. But right now he can say with absolute certainty:

He’s never been so frightened in his life.


	6. VIII

**8\. You know that sometimes, the only solution to a problem is to eat an offensively large meal.**

 

“I’m never eating again,” the Doctor proclaims, flinging the last bit of takeaway (some blue-green noodles from Sartrend IV) into an ever-mounting pile of scraps.

Donna rolls over on the sofa with much effort, fixing him with a beady gaze where he sits, legs akimbo, on the floor nearby.

“Well that’s certainly a turn for the books,” she snorts wryly. “Beanpole like you.”

He gives her a look but doesn’t say anything, scooting over to the sofa and leaning his back against it so if the impulse struck her she could do any manner of damage to his carefully coiffed hair. She doesn’t though. She doesn’t think she’ll ever move again.

It had started out as a distraction. She’s gotten good at heading off his stormy moods, sensing when he needs to talk or when he just needs to get out of his own head and do something a little bonkers. She reckons she’s pretty much figured him out by now and that he’s got her number as well.

So, for him, she temporarily overcomes her aversion to eating items of mysterious origins and suggests they do a takeaway tour of the universe.

To which he responds in his best, most pedantic, _you-humans-are-adorable-with-your-pea-sized-intellect_ voice that _of course_ a takeaway tour of the universe would take an eternity and so _obviously_ they’d have to stay in this solar system if she didn’t mind.  And that’s how she knew she’d been right to suggest it.

Donna was thoroughly unsurprised when he managed to produce a little dog-eared book (A Discerning Eater’s Guide to the Plexoris Star System) and began leafing through it, his brainy specs slipping down his nose and his brow adorably furrowed.

But now they’re sitting together, stuffed to the gills, with the X-Factor droning on in the background and Donna questions the wisdom of her actions. She can’t even picture leaving this spot let alone leaving the TARDIS.

She’s startled from her thoughts, feeling his hand find hers and she smiles, squeezing it.

“Thanks,” the Doctor murmurs finally, twisting his neck around so he can meet her eyes. There’s so much warmth blazing in his gaze that Donna feels her cheeks heat slightly. She knows he’s not thanking her for the food.

She scoffs lightly. “Well, I’ve got to put some meat on those bones. Bloody toaster rack, you are.”

He lets her brush him off with a knowing smile, leaning his head back on the cushion of the sofa. She finally caves to the desire to ruffle his hair gently and sees his eyes flicker closed.

“You’re welcome,” she says after a while and he grins. She means so much more.

And he understands perfectly.

 

 


	7. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An excuse for more hurt/comfort angst? Don't mind if I do. ;)

##  9. When everything goes tits up, you’re always available to talk/cuddle/bitch.

When at first the Doctor hears the tinny ringing of Martha’s mobile, he can’t identify it. He spins impotently about the console, trying to find the source of the noise.

And then he realizes, with a start, that the noise is coming from his trousers.

He reaches into his pocket and yanks out a Jane Austen novel, half a Mars bar, a spanner, three squirming field mice and about a century’s worth of intergalactic lint before he manages to get his hands on it.

“Hello?” he says, slightly breathlessly, when he finally manages to uncover the device.

“Hi Doctor.”

It’s Donna. Of course it’s Donna. She and Martha are the only ones who’d ever bother trying to reach him by _mobile_.

“Donna! Brilliant!” he cries heartily. “Shall I come get you then? Had enough of earth and your mum’s whingeing? Don’t blame you one bit, I’ll be there in just a tick–”

“Gramps is ill,” she interjects suddenly. He feels his hearts lurch.

“What?!”

“He’s… my granddad’s ill… he’ll be okay we think, but…. can you come?”

Her voice is small and pained with no hint of her usual bluster.

“Of course, of course,” he mutters, sandwiching the mobile between his cheek and his shoulder so he can begin flicking at the controls. “I’ll be right there.”

When he arrives it’s Sylvia who answers the door.

“Oh that’s all we need,” she grumbles in lieu of greeting, disappearing into the kitchen without another word and leaving the door ajar.

“Right, I’ll just…. come in, then… shall I?” the Doctor says, stepping into the foyer and closing the door carefully behind him.

“Donna?” he calls timidly, peeking his head through the nearest doorway. She leaps up from the armchair she’s perched on and springs into his arms.

“Steady on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her.  He feels her shoulders tremble and holds her tighter.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Sylvia mutters, appearing suddenly.

Donna turns in his embrace. “ _I_ invited him!” she growls back, her voice breaking a little at the end.

The Doctor, alarmed at the rising scarlet hue of Sylvia’s cheeks, gently disentangles himself from Donna taking her hand instead.

“How’s Wilf doing?”

“Okay now, no thanks to _you_ young lady,” Sylvia says jerking her head pointedly at Donna. “Can’t be bothered to ring let alone show up.”

The Doctor feels Donna tense and open her mouth to retaliate and squeezes her hand.

“Let’s get some air,” he says quietly and carefully steers Donna out of the room.

Away from the immediate threat of Sylvia, Donna takes the lead, bringing him up the stairs and into a room he can only assume is hers.

He’s never been in her bedroom in Chiswick before. It’s a cozy, if slightly sterile room, dominated almost completely by a massive bed in the center with a cream-colored duvet thrown back carelessly. Besides a photograph of Wilf on her bedside table, she’s hardly decorated at all. He picks up the photo, smiling to himself at the sight of a much younger Wilf carrying what at first appears to be a chubby white blob with a thatch of red on top, shoved into a checkered blue onesie, but upon closer inspection is actually Donna as an infant. He thinks he keenly recognizes the look disgust and dismay on her tiny face. Probably at having been forced into the blue-checked abomination. He snorts.

“Oi,” she says sharply. “It’s not polite to laugh.”

She snatches the photograph from his hands as if to replace it on the table but instead studies it fondly, a quiet smile curling her lips. She sinks down on the bed and he sits next to her.

“God I was a bad-tempered little thing,” she murmurs.

“Whaaat? You? Nooooo,” the Doctor breaths in mock surprise and she hits his shoulder none-too-gently. He shoots her a cheeky grin and she sighs.

“Apparently I wouldn’t sleep for about a month straight. Had terrible earaches. Colic. Everything.”

She swallows heavily. “And he was there the whole time, my dad told me. He’d stay up with me. Rock me to sleep so my mum and dad could get a little rest.”

“He adores you,” the Doctor says simply.

“Yeahhh,” she breaths and he can’t quite tell if it was the right thing to say. She looks lost in thought, turning the picture frame in her hands.

“Penny for ‘em?” he asks quietly.

“Is it selfish, what I’m doing? Traveling with you? Being away so much when my granddad’s not… he’s not getting any younger, is he?”

The Doctor shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

He hears her breath leave her in a rush and reaches for her hand.

“But you’re so so brilliant. And so so brave. Out there, with me, among the stars.”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I’ve belonged anywhere,” she admits after a little while and he thinks it’s the most vulnerability she’s ever verbally expressed in front of him. “I ask him… I ask him every time if he’d rather I come home and look after him and he always tells me he wants me to go, that he just wants to see me happy but still, I....”

She trails off and he can see her inner turmoil reflected plainly in her eyes.  

“Tell me this, Donna Noble,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Are you happy? Out there, with me?”

She nods and he sees tears gather in her eyes. “Happier than I’ve ever been in my life,” she whispers. The tears start to fall and he wraps an arm around her as she begins to cry in earnest.

“He looked so small,” she whimpers. “Hooked up to all those machines and things in hospital.”

The Doctor just grips her shoulder and nods, his chest tightening. She sighs shakily and hiccoughs a little and he stares at his feet while she scrubs at her eyes and tries to collect herself.

“Let’s go see him,” the Doctor says after a while. “Eh? Nothing will cheer him up more than a visit from his favorite granddaughter.”

She nods and smiles weakly at him. “S’pose so.”

She takes his hand and they’re off again.

 

 


	8. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a little away from me. Note the rating change.

##  10. You’ve had countless conversations that start, “I know she’s pretty, but she’s more cute-pretty than hot-pretty, right?”

When Donna wakes up, everything is a little hazy and she can’t quite determine the identity of the arm wrapped around her, slung almost possessively over her hip, but _god_ it feels good and right and she feels warm like she never has before. She drifts back to sleep, snuggling into the body behind her.

Several hours later when she wakes again, what she _can_ immediately identify is the cotton-mouth and pounding headache. What the hell had they been drinking last night?

She turns over gingerly, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning,” murmurs the Doctor, tipping her chin up to kiss her (with no regard for her horrifying morning breath or spinning head).

She kisses him back automatically, her lips moving gently over his even as her brow works itself into an increasingly impressive furrow. He tangles his fingers in her already knotted hair and when the hand on her hip starts to wander she pulls away suddenly.

“Right…. and don’t take this the wrong way, but…. _what?!_ ”

He laughs lightly and tries to pull her back to him, his fingers sliding over her hip to cup her bum (and _why oh why isn’t she wearing pyjamas?!_ ) so that his fingertips are inches away from her–

“Hang on, mate!” Donna stutters. His hand freezes just _there_ and she determinedly ignores the flutter of arousal in her stomach. She feels her cheeks flame.

“I suspect I’m missing some key details of what we got up to last night," she states evenly in an attempt to avoid the inevitable shouting.

“Y-you… you don’t remember?”

“I think I’ve worked out some of the overarching themes but I’m a bit fuzzy on the details!” she answers shrilly, a little alarmed at the note of hysteria in her voice. So much for calm. 

“Right,” he states, his ears flaming and he snatches his hands from her. She feels a little bereft and doesn’t let herself stop to consider it.  He sits up and yanks the sheets around his hips, staring at his hands neatly folded in his lap.  She moves in kind, carefully tucking the duvet around her armpits and sitting up to face him.

“Okay, so we….”

“It appears so,” he says stiffly.

“Why?”

“Why?!”

He looks exasperated, scrubbing his hand through his hair almost angrily. “I don't know why! Because it seemed like a good idea at the time!”

“ _Because it seemed like a good idea at the time_?” she repeats scathingly. He looks a little frightened of her and she reckons he has good reason to be; not many good things have followed that tone.

Then she starts laughing. He's thoroughly bemused, the sheets still carefully wrapped around his skinny body to preserve what is left of his modesty. It's the whole situation, the horrifying realization of waking up next to your best friend combined with the fact that she has trouble seeing him _that way_ at all, especially now that he looks more like a disgruntled school boy facing his punishment than a 900 year old... _sex fiend_. The thought of the Doctor as a sex _anything_ makes her giggle hysterically. She just _knew_ he'd be a bit shit at this. 

He looks terribly affronted at her outburst, and that only makes her laugh harder. 

“Oh go on,” she chuckles heartily, “You have to admit it is a bit funny, you and me, isn’t it?”

He cracks a smile and slides back down the bed, flinging a hand over his eyes.  They lie there like that for a little while, Donna cackling intermittently and the Doctor smiling shyly and she thinks they might just be able to move past all this business after all. 

“Was it any good?” she asks after a while, half joking. She doesn’t expect his eyes to darken and or the resultant thrumming at the pit of her stomach.  

“Do you want to see?”

Donna hesitates for a moment. It’d been embarrassing enough waking up next to him. She’s not sure if she wants to relive the deed itself. They have a comfortable little existence the two of them, bouncing and bickering around the universe like they do. And there's a part of her that desperately wants to bolt. They'd never meant to take this step together. She doesn't want him to know all her dark little corners, her fears of intimacy and rejection and all the things she'd managed to run from traveling with him.  Friendship can go on more or less indefinitely. Sleeping together introduces so much uncertainty to the equation and Donna  _hates_ being uncertain. 

But then again, if they’re going to ruin their friendship, she might as well remember it. 

Just before his fingers meet her temples, she thinks after all this it might be a little harder to pretend she doesn't like him when his ego needs shrinking. 

And then without warning, she falls in. All she can see and smell and taste is heat and red and skin and she’s herself but she’s also him, feeling his fingers on her hips, her thighs, her breasts, but also feeling her heat like it’s not her own, like it’s something alien and other-worldly and _so so good_. She throws her head back and she can see the delicate column of her own throat, feel his desire to possess her, to devour her and to be devoured in kind. And she’s _beautiful_.

Donna pulls away from his fingers suddenly and he’s staring at her with an intensity she’s never seen. She can feel a pink flush creeping down her chest and she watches his eyes dip to her lips.

She’s not sure if he moves or if she does, but suddenly she’s beneath him, her back pressed to the mattress as he kisses her hungrily, his hands everywhere at once. She clings to him and tries to memorize the play of his muscles across his back, the dewiness of his lips, the feeling of his stubble against her breast because she didn’t get to do any of that before. He whispers her name against her throat and her ribs and she lets herself surrender to the swirling heat in her brain. 

He makes her come ludicrously quickly (she'll be embarrassed later, but right now she's gone limp) and when she does she screams the Doctor’s name. She knows he’ll never let her live it down, but she can’t quite find it in herself to care just now.  

Afterward, he collapses next to her, his head on her shoulder, his hand gentling at its new favorite place on her hip. Donna huffs out a breath, staring at the ceiling. The whir of his brain is nearly audible as she listens to the dull thud of his twin heartbeats against her, pounding faster than she's ever heard them. 

“Okay, it was pretty good,” she admits, breaking the silence. She can feel smugness radiating off him in waves. “Decent. A good first effort.”

He looks up at her dolefully and then ruins the effect by waggling his eyebrows and saying, “I seem to recall a bit of screaming and moaning that suggests otherwise.”  

“Oh what do I do with you?” she sighs not-unaffectionately. He gazes at her fondly, looking tousled and sweaty and utterly content. She's feeling pretty good, herself, upon further reflection. She's never been fucked quite like that and the thought makes her blush because it's _the Doctor._ Her stupid, gangly, half-daft best friend that she can't quite seem to live without. And he's  _divine._

As if he's sensed her train of thought, he grins up at her, his dimples showing.  He's snuggled up to her like she's his own personal teddy-bear and she's equal parts satiated and scandalized, not quite used to being so exposed in front of him. 

“What are you staring at you nutter?” she shoots, feeling embarrassed under the intensity of his scrutiny.

That only makes his smile widen for some reason. “You’re lovely,” he responds simply, pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate white skin between her breasts.

“Oh don’t get all… don’t be all…. I know I’m not the usual–” she huffs out a sigh. “I mean I’m not 20.”

He props himself up on his elbows and fixes her with a frown. “Does it seem like I particularly care?”

“I suppose not,” she muses, in a small voice, distracted by the way his fingers trail over her stomach. 

“Does it _feel_ like I particularly care?” He grinds his hips in a slow circle against hers and she flushes and shakes her head quickly.

“So there,” he declares, and begins working open-mouthed kisses downward from her clavicle so she can't quite concentrate on being _not enough_ even if she wanted to.

“I’m just saying,” she says persistently, a little breathlessly as his tongue flicks over her pebbled nipple, “I’m just saying you don’t have to pretend–”

He releases her nipple with a pop, brow furrowed again. “Pretend what?”

“You don’t have lie to make me feel better, I know what I’m not and I know that I’m not your usual–”

She breaks off with a gasp because a wandering hand slips between her legs and drives a finger into her.

“What was that?” he asks wryly, his eyebrow raised.

“I know I’m not– _oh god yes, do that again_.”

"Must remember this is quite an effective method of shutting you up," he muses and she's too breathless to smack him. She can’t even find it in herself to be bothered by the self-satisfied smirk curling his lips. It’s all she can do to keep speaking.

“I know the usual sort you travel around with and I’m not– oh _GOD_ don't stop– I don’t want romance and I’m not in love with you–”

“How flattering,” the Doctor comments, still grinning from ear to ear. 

“I just mean I’m not going to fawn over you like the other ones–”

“Donna Noble,” he whispers, leaning over her so his lips are inches from hers. “For once in your life. _Just stop talking_.”

He does something deliciously dirty with his fingers and she comes spectacularly, gasping, her hands scrambling for purchase, and she finds herself thinking for one moment that maybe the size of his ego is completely deserved.

 

 


	9. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this whole thing has turned out a little shmoopier than I was expecting and I'm not sorry at all. :P

##  11. Nudity doesn’t phase you anymore.

 

The first time it happens, it’s an accident (she hopes).

She’s minding her own business, leafing around her wardrobe for clothing after a shower and humming an inane little tune to herself when he bursts in her bedroom, his limbs flailing.

“Donna!” he exclaims. “I’ve just thought of–”

She never _does_ find out what he’s just thought of, because she makes a ragged screeching noise more suited to some sort of prehistoric beast than a 36 year old temp from Chiswick and hits the deck at such high speed that she feels her brain rattle around in her skull.

His eyes go wide and then he clamps a hand over them, spinning wildly in place.

“I’m– er– sorry I didn’t mean to– I’ll just–”

Before he manages to put together a coherent sentence, he high-tails blindly out of her bedroom and she hears a bony limb hit the opposite wall with a dull thunk as he goes flying through the doorway. Serves him right, the nosy blighter.

She’s never lived with someone of the opposite sex she wasn’t sleeping with. It’s wrought with more potential for awkwardness than she ever realised.

And then they _do_ sleep together.

He’s utterly shameless. She supposes it must be pointless to be self-conscious about a body that changes every few years or maybe he’s just incredibly arrogant, which wouldn’t surprise her much either. But she still has wobbly bits she’d like to keep to herself, _thank you very much_.

 Unfortunately he doesn't seem all that keen on letting her.

The fact that he seems to like her wobbly bits very much does little to increase her desire to parade around like he does. But she does feel _comfortable_ now, like she never did before.

Part of it, she thinks, is that they’re really still just friends. They don’t confess their attraction for each other in long, romantic monologues and run off into the sunset together. There’s no soppy looks or sickly sweetness. The truth is, they haven’t even put into words what they feel for each other. It’s subtler, more honest, she thinks. The way he’s transfixed by the constellation of freckles across her hip and the curve of her waist as he admires her openly. The way she catches him eyeing her fondly in quiet moments and she thinks it’s all she’ll ever need from him.

Sometimes she doubts. Years of rejection don’t fade so easy. And then he does something small, like setting toast out for her without her asking or putting aside TARDIS repairs to watch old sketch shows with her; little things that make her feel so very _loved_.

Not _in_ love, but loved nonetheless. Loved so deeply.

He’s frenetic. He hates sitting still and sometimes she thinks she can hear him audibly buzzing when he’s forced to. But when he calms the manic churn of his ancient mind long enough to do something simple and sweet for her it means more to her than she can describe.

“I love this mark,” he says matter-of-factly against her skin as he presses his lips to the mole on her side that she hates.

 He always did love exploring new worlds.

She smiles hazily, rakes her fingers through his wild hair and lets him get on with exploring.


	10. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set early on in season 4.

##  12. And neither does vomit [phase you anymore].

“I didn’t even think Time Lords could get the flu.”

The Doctor grimaces. “It’s not the flu.”

“Looks like the flu.”

“Well it’s not,” he corrects flatly.  

Donna tuts doubtfully and the Doctor groans. “If you don’t mind,” he mutters. “I’m _ill_.”

As if to underscore his point, the Doctor retches violently, straightens up and rests his head against the cool tiles of his bathroom wall. Donna rolls her eyes and disappears.

Mostly, he welcomes her absence. He’s shivery and clammy and his suit feels too hot and if this is the flu (but of course it’s not, because the flu is an illness for weaker species than his) then he’d rather be dead. He doesn’t particularly wish for her to see him like this. But he does feel pitiful, alone and curled up by the toilet like he is, his skin feeling distinctly too tight.

The Doctor is so preoccupied with feeling sorry for himself that he doesn’t notice Donna come back in until her legs enter his field of vision. He follows her slippered foot up her pyjama-clad leg and finally to her face, where she’s looking down at him worriedly. 

“Come on Martian, up you get,” she says gently. Her voice has entirely lost its earlier acerbic edge.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, just for appearance’s sake, and she snorts.

“The currently visible contents of your stomach strongly suggest otherwise, mate.”

She bends down and helps him up, keeping a firm grip on his elbow. He’d protest, but his legs seem to have been replaced by gelatin.

They make slow progress out of the bathroom and into his bedroom where she sits him down on the bed and begins attacking the buttons at his throat.

“Er… why are you undressing me?”

“If you think I’m going to let you languish around in that disgusting suit,” she mutters, managing to pull off his shirt and vest in one fell swoop. He shivers violently and her eyes soften.

“Oh Spaceman,” she murmurs tenderly. Her hand jerks toward him a little, like she was about to touch him and then thought better of it.

She’s much less brusque removing his trousers and he stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about what she’s doing. She pushes back the duvet and tucks him in carefully with that same uncharacteristically soft expression on her face. 

Maybe she does like him a  _bit_.

Donna produces a damp cloth from his bedside table and dabs at his forehead, her brow gently wrinkled in consternation.

"You're so hot," she murmurs, pressing her hand to his forehead.

"So I've been told," he quips with a cheeky wink. 

She gives him a withering look but chuckles lightly when she thinks he's not looking.

“Right,” she says, suddenly businesslike again. “I’ve made tea.”

“Dunno if I can keep much of anything down,” he admits.

She sits down next to him. “All the same. Take a couple sips.  I’ve put a bin by the bed. You’ve got to stay hydrated.”

He smiles weakly at her and obediently takes a couple sips out of the mug she hands him.

“And if I hear of you so much as moving a muscle until you’re better, there’ll be hell to pay, understand?” she barks and he nods hurriedly, quickly regretting the move when another wave of nausea grips him. He tries to smile at her but he suspects it’s more of a grimace.

She sighs and studies her hands, folded in her lap. “You’ll… you’ll be okay right?”

Her voice is tremulous and in that instant he realizes how much she cares for him and how she’s so very Donna about it that he hadn’t even noticed the lengths she’s gone to to make his room homey and comfortable for him while he recovers.

“Course,” he says, reaching for her hand.  “Take more than a little flu to do me in.”

“Thought you said it wasn’t the flu,” she shoots, her crooked grin returning. He lets his head drop back against the pillows and puffs out a laugh.

She gives his hand a squeeze and stands up, striding the short distance across the room to resettle in a massive red velvet arm chair that he can’t recall being there before. She gives him a sharp look and gathers her legs carefully beneath her, leafing around the floor below for a dog-eared copy of Death on the Nile.

He catches her eye again and smiles tentatively and she grins warmly back at him, looking cozy and content now that he's tucked in and taken care of. He thinks chills and fever and vomiting aside, one thing is for sure:

He could get used to this.

 

 


	11. XIII

## 13\. You’ve rehearsed potential conversations with your S.O.s with each other.

  
“Let’s go through it again.”

“I think we’ve done it enough.”

“Doc _tor_!”

“Don _na_!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, eyes challenging each other and then the Doctor acquiesces with a belabored sigh, collapsing on the jump seat, his head lolling petulantly to one side.

“Hi Phil, I know I have seen you in a while but–” Donna begins.

“Donna Noble?! In the flesh!?”

The Doctor has put on a high-pitched, nasal sounding voice, and she swats at him.

“He doesn’t sound like that!”

“Well I don’t know! You’ve been hiding him from me all this time!” the Doctor accuses and beneath her customary bluster he can tell she’s abashed.

“I haven’t been _hiding_ him, it just never seemed a good time–”

“To mention you’ve got a _boyfriend_?”

“I haven’t got a… boyfriend…” she grumbles. “I’ve got a… friend… a male type friend–”

“Oh, what, like _we’re_ friends?”

It’s a low blow and he knows it. She glares at him for a long second and then tosses her hair behind her shoulders with a dignified sniff and doesn’t say anything. He’s not hurt, so much as miffed, by her omission. That’s all. Though he supposes if a shade of hurt creeps into his tone, he can hardly be expected to help it. It’s a big thing to forget to mention to your best friend (whom you casually shag when it suits your fancy but that's neither here nor there).

“Where’d you even meet this bloke anyway?”

“At a pub,” she shoots, staring grumpily at him. Only Donna could be so embarrassed and yet so magnificently haughty about it. She hesitates a moment.  “After I left Shaun and before I… before I found you again.”

The Doctor stiffens and pointedly doesn't say anything. They’ve managed not to mention the three months they’d spent apart after Donna had left him to make a go of her life with Shaun. She’s back on the TARDIS, where she belongs, and that’s all that matters.

“And all this time he thinks he’s been dating you?” he asks, incredulous.

She gives a shrug with an air of forced nonchalance. “It’s not like it was serious!”

“And where exactly does he think you’ve been?”

“I’ve told him I travel a lot for work!” she crows defensively.

“For eight months?”

“It doesn’t have to be eight months! We’re in a bloody time machine, if you haven’t noticed!”

“We can’t go back on established timelines–” he begins to say with practiced pedantry even though that's not strictly applicable here because really, the timelines haven't yet been established, and this particular event is in flux but she doesn't need to know that–

He's cut off from his internal musing because suddenly he's much more concerned by the finger she's brandishing in his face.  

"You must think I'm an idiot,”  she says sharply, poking the threatening finger into his chest so that his eyes dart between her face and her finger. He shakes his head hurriedly and she scoffs. "Timelines, my left foot."

She stays stooped there for a while, staring at him shrewdly as if she's trying to fish some sort of confession out of him and then just as abruptly, she straightens up and pastes on a simpering smile that makes him even more suspicious than her beady-eyed-chest-poking had done.

“Now bring us to a Friday, if you please. Seven months ago. A nice sunny day. There’s a good martian.”

He scowls at her but, as ever, does exactly what she asks.


	12. XIV

##  14. You’ve accidentally spent so much time together than you’ve started speaking in the exact same way.

In little ways, they rub off on each other.

The Doctor adopts Donna’s phraseology in times of distress and utters a heartfelt, “You have got to be kidding me,” when the sweet, well-mannered princess of the seventh moon of Skygorn turns out to be a slimy sort of lizard in an elaborate flesh-suit that’s stolen her body. Donna starts popping her p’s, at first just to bother him, and it gradually becomes something of a habit.

Sometimes, they rub off on each other in big ways.

They’re dodging laser-fire in the 32nd century, her hand tightly in his as they weave through panicked crowds in search of the TARDIS. He feels her tug on him, feels her fingers slip from his and he whirls around to shout at her only to see her, crouched a few meters back next to a young woman who’s curled around an infant, half-hidden by a derelict building.

“Donna!” he thunders, ducking back through the throng and almost losing sight of her before he nearly collides with her where she’s stooped.

“She’s injured and she hasn’t got anyone with her,” Donna cries. “We can’t just abandon her!”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to insist they leave. They haven’t any time to bring anyone with them. This entire planet is on the verge of collapse. They’ve got to go _now_.

Then Donna meets his gaze, eyes tear-filled and full of anguish and he remembers the last time she’d looked at him just like that.

Not the whole town. _Just save someone._

He looks at her for another long moment and makes up his mind. He bends down and scoops the woman and her infant into his arms in one go. The woman stares up at him, terrified and dazed. Donna is looking almost equally surprised, and he yanks her up by the arm and shouts, “Let’s go!”

They're a slightly ungainly trio, stumbling and slipping through the mud, but they make it to the TARDIS just as the earth beneath their feet begins to crumble. The Doctor throws the dematerialization lever with the screams of the lost echoing in his ears. 

After a stop in the TARDIS medbay, they bring the woman to join her relatives that live on an adjacent planet, as yet untouched by the war that is tearing through the solar system. They step out of the TARDIS, into the sunshine and the silence is almost eery compared to the deafening sound of warfare. The sky is a brilliant pale purple and blades of blue-green grass ripple idly in the soft breeze. There’s a little stone hut nestled nearby in the hills, smoke rising merrily from its chimney. It would all be terribly quaint looking if not for the futuristic-looking spacecraft parked neatly next to the house.

Regardless, it’s a far cry from the world they’d just left; the Doctor thinks if he scoured the mud, he might be able to find a couple of the little yellow flowers that liberally dot the hillside, crushed and addled by the boots of invading soldiers.

“Is this what it looked like… before?” Donna asks softly, coming to stand next to the woman who is gazing out at the acres of pastoral landscape longingly.

She nods numbly, clutching her baby to her and the Doctor thinks he knows a little of her pain.

“Look– Sarina, that’s your name, right?” he asks kindly when she flinches a little at his voice. She nods and watches him warily.

“You’ve got to get away from here. Get your family and get out. There’s nothing but war for this system, for many years. Do you understand?”

She nods again and the Doctor jerks his head curtly. “Right, then… we’ve got to be on our way…”

He reaches for Donna’s hand and watches her casts one last look at Sarina where she stands still tearfully gazing at the horizon before she turns and walks with him back to the TARDIS.

“Wait!” Sarina shouts, just as the Doctor is about to close the door. He and Donna stand, framed in the TARDIS blue.

“Who are you?”

The Doctor looks casts half a look at Donna.

“I’m the Doctor and this is Donna. And we’re here to help.”


	13. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think when at long last I finish this list, I will shuffle everything around so that it's in chronological order but until then, this little fic goes somewhere after Part X. 
> 
> Oh, and their destination is loosely based on actual speakeasy I went to last summer (albeit in Shoreditch) complete with the unlocked cafe and everything!

##  16. You’ve definitely wingmanned for each other before.

“We’re going out,” Donna announces, striding into the library.

The Doctor looks up from his tea and his novel.

“We’re what now?” he asks mildly.

“We–” Donna enunciates, striding across the room, and grabbing his arm, “–are getting out of the house.”

With that, she pulls him up from the couch, so he dumps tea on himself and his book falls to the ground with a dull thunk. He hisses in pain and glares at her. “We don’t even live in a house!”

She ignores him and takes his tea, setting it down on the end table.

“You’ve been in a right strop all this week–”

“I’ve _lost_ a planet!”

“–and I can’t stand that alien hero complex of yours–”

“–literally _lost_ it. I can’t find it anywhere. I think I’m allowed a bit of a–”

“Go on then. Take us somewhere fun. We deserve a break.”

“Did you not hear the bit about losing the planet?”

“Oh, it’ll turn up,” she dismisses with nonchalant wave of her hand, and before he can protest, she spins on her heel and begins to leave.

“And change before you do, your shirt’s all wet,” she calls over her shoulder on her way out. The Doctor looks down and indeed, a yellowish stain smelling strongly of chamomile is spreading downward from his left breast pocket.

He grumbles to himself. _Humans_. Next time he’ll just get a cat.

* * *

For all his complaining, the Doctor seems positively jolly when at last they step out into the chilly night air. His grin is infectious and she can’t help but smile at him when she links her arm through his.

“So where and when are we?” she asks. “Looks a lot like Lon–”

“London. Earth. The solar system. 21st century. I’d say–” he sniffs the air, “–Holborn. Ish.”

“You can tell by the _smell_?”

“‘Course I can,” he shrugs.

“You can tell what bit of London we’re in by the _smell_?”

“Time Lords have extraordinarily highly developed–”

“And it wouldn’t be that sign? Just there?” she asks innocently.

Indeed, the sign on the building nearest reads ‘High Holborn.’

He sighs ruefully. “Someday that will work.”

“Good luck with that, mate,” she snorts. 

“Bit boring though, isn’t it? 21st century London and all?”

He just beams at her from ear to ear and she has to hustle slightly to keep up with him. He turns corners erratically and she grips his arm tightly as he winds them through the darkened streets and they dodge the boisterous crowds gathered round the pubs.

“You couldn't have just landed us closer?” she pants after the millionth tiny street sandwiched between buildings and he just laughs at her.

Donna’s starting to get a little excited in spite of herself, and the manic grin he shoots her now and then does little to alleviate the little flutter at the pit of her stomach. It’s all his fault. She never _used_ to like surprises this much.

He yanks her down another one-way street so suddenly her neck nearly cracks and plants them in front of a darkened cafe front.

“We’re here!” he announces.

She raises a dubious eyebrow. “Looks shut.”

“Nah,” he scoffs, and tries the door. It swings open.

“Good security system,” Donna comments mildly.

The Doctor leads her through the cafe, the upturned tables and chairs giving Donna the shivers for some reason as they pass. She’ll blame him for that one too. It’s only a matter of time before they end up on Planet of the Carnivorous Furniture. She presses close to him and tries to erase the image of a settee sprouting teeth from her brain.

“Right, here we are,” the Doctor mutters, halting in front of a non-descript door just past the till.

He raises his eyebrows at her. “Ready?”

“Yes?” Donna asks.

Donna’s not entirely sure what to expect but she lets out a breath when all that’s behind the door is a darkened stairwell with grimy stone walls that leads God-knows-where. The Doctor pulls her forward.

“If this is all some elaborate trick and we’re going to end up trapped somewhere miles underground–”

“It’s nothing like that, I promise,” the Doctor reassures her. “Trust me?”

And god help her, she does. Of course she does.

At the bottom of the stairs, there’s what was clearly by day, a storage room of sorts, and it had been transformed.

Fairy lights were strung throughout the surprisingly large room so that the stone walls flicker with gold. A large mahogany bar stands at one end of the room, and low tables and squashy chairs dominate the rest of the floor, each with a candle flickering on it. A jazz trio warbles away in the corner next to a blazing fireplace so that the entire room feels cozy and warm and pleasant. The low hum of conversation and clinking of glasses completes the atmosphere.

“Oh my god,” Donna breaths. “Is this always here?”

He shakes his head. “Just for a week or two. Thought it might be fun.”

Donna’s grinning so widely her cheeks ache. “Brilliant.”

 The Doctor ushers her to a table. “I’ll get us a drink. Champagne I think, yes?”

Donna laughs. “What are we celebrating?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Life. Traveling. Being together. Not being eaten by those venomous Taranculas earlier.  The usual.”

“A night off,” Donna offers.

“A night off indeed,” the Doctor agrees heartily.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Donna is feeling loose and pleasant and thoroughly unwound.

“Don’t look now– I said _don’t_ look! Oh god, nevermind, she’s seen you. You’re completely useless.”

“What?” the Doctor crows, craning his neck around even more.

“That woman over there was looking at you but you’ve ruined it with your weird bird face.”

“My _what_?!”

She rolls her eyes and takes another delicate sip of her cocktail. “Have you never noticed the resemblance? Oh she’s noticed you looking she’s… ah–”

Donna shuts her mouth suddenly because the woman appears next to them a moment later.

“Hello there,” the Doctor squeaks about as unsexily as he could have done, while Donna elbows him in the ribs. He clears his throat. “Hello,” he says, in a much deeper voice. Donna bites back laughter.

The woman seems to find his bumbling charming (or something) because she laughs, a tinkling, light sound that stands out in stark contrast to Donna’s unladylike cackling in the background. Actually the woman is about as un-Donna-like as she could be, slender and tall in build with sleek blond hair pulled back into an elaborate chignon. She has icy blue eyes and a thin face. Donna feels an instinctive stab of dislike that she tries to quickly squash. It’s hardly the woman’s fault she’s all _thin_ and _blonde_ and–

“Couldn’t help but notice that you were looking at me before.”

“Er well… this body’s got a bit of a lazy eye–”

He cuts off because Donna is glaring at him so deeply that her eyes have nearly disappeared beneath her furrowed brows. Donna watches him mentally replay his words and his eyes light up when he realizes where he’s gone wrong. She shakes her head, exasperated. _Honestly_.

“I didn’t mean this body, I meant just– this, me, sort of thing, you know–”

“Yes, he was looking at you,” Donna interjects, cutting over his stumbling. “And I’m going to go get another drink, shall I?” she asks pointedly.

“What–? Oh er– yes! I’ll come–” the Doctor sputters.

“ _Oh no you will not_ ,” Donna mutters emphatically just loud enough that the Doctor catches it.

“–which is exactly what I will _not_ be doing,” he saves, not entirely gracefully. The woman gives that tinkling laugh again and Donna feels another bolt of annoyance. She excuses herself before she can say something snarky, and casts a look over her shoulder as she heads toward the bar. The woman’s laughing at something the Doctor’s said (again!) and she keeps touching his forearm coyly. Utterly shameless. Donna almost admires her.

Donna chooses a seat at the bar so she can keep an eye on the Doctor from her vantage point.

“They seem to be getting on,” someone comments and Donna turns around to see the bartender jerk his head the direction of the Doctor. She swivels around toward him and sighs.

“Of course they are. He can charm the paint right off a wall if he likes,” she mutters. “ _Don’t–_ ” she threatens with an index finger, “–tell him I said that.”

The bartender cracks a grin.

“It’s good for him though… he needs someone,” she muses.

“Hasn’t he got you?”

“Awfully personal questions from the man behind the bar,” Donna shoots and he laughs lightly.

She’s quiet for a moment, staring pensively into her dwindling drink and swirling the ice with the cocktail straw between her fingers.

“Of course he’s got me. But I reckon sometimes he needs someone a bit less… shouty.”

The bartender chuckles again and she studies him for a moment. He’s a little younger than she’d usually go for, but he has the loveliest dark green eyes–

“Donna, we’ve got to go _now_ –”

The Doctor materializes at her side and tugs at her sleeve. “Please,” he whines. “Let’s go.”

“What’ve you done?!”

“I– nothing!” he insists, his ears going red. “She… she wanted to… y’know… _seduce_ me.”

Donna bursts out laughing. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

 “No, it most certainly is not! Why’d you leave me alone with her?!”

Donna gives him a withering look.

“Okay fine! I know why you left me alone with her! But it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve got to leave now because I sort of _toldherweweremarried_ okay bye!”

“ _WHAT?!”_

Her indignant squawks follow him clear out the pub, out the cafe, onto the streets of London, and into the vortex.


	14. XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is a sequel to the last part and if I had any presence of mind I'd have waited and posted them together in one chapter but I had no idea I'd write so much this weekend.

## 17\. You can voice your dumbest thoughts to each other and not be scared of sounding stupid.

Much later, when he finally stops Donna shouting at him (by the simple, if slightly dubious method of kissing her very hard and very persistently such that she is unable get a word out in the interim) and they’re curled together in Donna’s bed with Donna’s comforting scent surrounding him, it finally occurs to him to ask.

“Why’d you try to set me up with Elyssa anyhow?”

Donna, who’d been in the process of falling into a very pleasant sex-induced doze, merely grunts. “Elyssa?”

“The woman from tonight,” he explains.

Donna shrugs, and pressed up against him as she is, the attempt translates into little more than a half-hearted jerk of one shoulder.

“Thought it might be nice for you,” she murmurs, eyes still closed.

This seems a bit ridiculous to the Doctor. What could possibly be nicer than _this_?

He voices this thought, and she fixes him with a beady-eyed stare, one dubious eyebrow raising so that it nearly disappears into her fringe. She snorts.

“ _What_?” he intones.

“Don’t–” she says, suddenly forceful. “–patronize me.”

“I– what? I’m not!”

She gives another doubtful half-laugh and buries her face back in his shoulder. He can feel her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as her eyelids slide shut again. Her dismissal perturbs him deeply. He lays there for a moment, gently stroking the length of her spine and listening to her breathing, and then he realises he can’t let it slide.

“Donna?”

Nothing. Just the gentle snuffling sound of her breath against the bedclothes.

“Donnaaa?”

“Bugger off.”

He laughs at that and she finally lifts her head only to give him such a deep glare that he can’t help chuckling at her again. She huffs out a sigh. “ _What_?”

“Why’d you think it’d be nice?”

She stares at him for a long moment, her face inscrutable.

“You can’t laugh,” she warns, turning onto her side so she can support herself with one elbow and look at him more directly.

“Of course I wouldn’t,” he assures her gently.

“I… well you’re all clever and everything– oi, don’t be like that–” she narrows her eyes, as he visibly preens, “–and you’re not exactly hard on the eyes, I guess–”

“Closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever received from you,” the Doctor interjects, laughing and Donna rolls her eyes. “Well don’t get used to it.”

“And well I suppose what it really comes down to is that I don’t want you feeling… you know… sort of... stuck with me, I guess.”

She says it all in a rush and then looks anywhere but at him, suddenly appearing very vulnerable swathed in the lavender of her bedsheets.

“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” the Doctor begins evenly.

“Have we?”

“And I think we’ve established on many separate occasions, and in many various states of undress–” (“You prawn,” she chides gently), “–that there is no where else in this galaxy, this universe, or several universes over that I would rather be than stuck with you, Donna Noble.”

“Get off.”

“It’s true. Time scout’s honour.”

“That’s not even a real thing,” she scoffs.

She tries to sound dismissive but he can tell by the light flush in her cheeks and the almost undetectable waver in her voice that he’s got to her. And it’s true. It’s easy being with her in a way he hasn’t experienced in a few centuries. She doesn’t expect him to be a slightly daft sort of human. He’s an alien, and somehow she seems to have some idea of the scope of what that means. And yet she isn’t intimidated by him.

And she’s dynamite in bed, to boot.

Until she realises all that he supposes he’ll just keep on telling her.

He must stare at her a little too adoringly for a little too long because she looks nervous, like she’s considering bolting. It wouldn’t be the first time he was afraid of frightening her away.

“It certainly is a relief though,” the Doctor comments after a while. She looks surprised.

“Oh?”

“Well I thought you might have been trying to get rid of me.”

Donna instantly relaxes, laughing easily and falling back into the pillows.

“Oh, be assured, I was. Having you off my hands for one whole night? A godsend.”

“You’ll have no such luck,” he assures her.

“Well I’ll just have to keep on trying then.”

By the way she sighs happily and clasps her hands around his neck when he rolls her under him to kiss her deeply, he suspects she won’t be trying very hard indeed.


	15. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows up directly after Part 9.

## 18\. If you live far apart, you regularly Skype each other for so long that one/both of you falls asleep.

When they come back to Donna’s house from visiting Wilf, Donna stops the Doctor on her front step before he can come in.

“My mum’s right,” she says gently, and she watches several hundred emotions flit across his face at lightening speed. “I need to be here right now.”

The Doctor swallows hard. “I can stay,” he offers, and her heart warms because she knows how much he hates being in one place.

“No,” she says firmly, and cups his cheek gently when his face falls infinitesimally. “Not because I don’t want you here. But it needs to just be us for a little while. Just my family. Until Gramps gets better.”

The Doctor nods. “Of course,” he says tightly, not quite meeting her eyes. She’s reminded forcibly of the first time she rejected him, when he shuffled his feet and avoided her gaze just the same.

“You’ll come back for me though? In a week or two? I just have to get him settled.”

There’s an unspoken plea in her tone that she thinks he must hear it because his eyes soften and he tangles his fingers with hers.

“Couldn’t get rid of you if I tried, eh?” He flashes her a ghost of his usual grin, and she smiles weakly and hugs him tightly to her.  

“See you in a bit,” she murmurs and feels him nod against her.

* * *

It’s been 10 days since he left her in Chiswick. He’s hesitant to adventure as he usually does in case it takes him away from her for too long (and isn’t _that_ an unfamiliar feeling?) but the TARDIS whirrs unhappily until finally he pilots her out of the vortex, chasing a distress signal in a faraway galaxy.

He saves a planet that day, rescues a civilization from a horrible dictator, and frees a beloved monarch but the victory doesn’t ring quite as sweet without her by his side.

Perhaps he’d been right to worry about depending on her. Despite her assurances and her bluster, she won’t be around forever.

It’s with a strange, hollow feeling in his chest that he flings off his duster, hanging it over a coral strut and strides toward the console. He flips the dematerialization lever and at that moment... the console rings.

He does a double take. As far as he’s concerned the console can’t _ring_.

But indeed, the console is making a ringing sound like an old fashioned telephone, and there’s a large red button he doesn’t recall seeing before. Never one to resist a nice blinking red button, he presses it, curious.

Donna’s face immediately appears on the monitor overhead.

“Donna!” he exclaims. “How on earth are you speaking with me?”

“I dunno!” Donna responds, smiling warmly at him. “I was just thinking about you and a little window just showed up on my laptop and I clicked it and here we are.”

The Doctor shoots a suspicious look at the console. “I suspect the TARDIS has been meddling with the technology again.”

“Can’t say I’m all that fussed,” Donna mutters and he beams at her.

“Ha! I knew it! You _did_ miss me!” the Doctor exclaims triumphantly.

“Of course I’ve missed you, you plum, ” Donna laughs. “You know that.”

He stares at her fondly for a while and wishes her face wasn’t so grainy on the monitor, and then he has a bolt of inspiration.

“I’ve just had a brilliant idea!”

“God help us all,” Donna groans. “For the last time, the toaster does not need to be more _sonic_ –”

“No, you’ll love it, I swear! Back in a mo’!”

Before she can protest, he flicks off the monitor. If he can only manage to land just so...

When he flings open the doors, his view is immediately obscured by a blur of ginger hair.

“Doctor!” she shrieks, and he picks her up and spins her clear off the ground, ignoring her squawks of dismay, before putting her down and studying her at arm’s length. Though she’s smiling now, a little rumpled from his slightly over-enthusiastic greeting, she looks weary, her face drawn and pale. She’s wearing her softest flannel pyjamas, the ones he gave her for Christmas two years ago and her hair is knotted into a messy bun.

“What are you doing here?!” she asks happily.

“Well… I was… y’know, giving you your space, and all, and then you rang and then I figured there’s no reason at all not to at least visit you as long as your mum doesn’t catch me and… you’re not upset, are you? I know you wanted to be alone with your family–”

He cuts off suddenly because she flings her arms around him again.

When at last she lets go of him, he just grins at her for a long moment and then leads her to her bed, sitting down next to her and taking her hand.

“How’s Wilf?” he asks.

“He’s… settling in. He’s frustrated at what he can’t do himself for right now. But day by day he’s getting back to his old self.”

The Doctor nods approvingly. “And your mum?”

“Oh, awful as you like. She’s glad I’m here though. I think. Maybe.”

The Doctor chuckles. “I’m sure she is, even if she wouldn’t let on. A bit like someone else I know.”

“Oi,” Donna grunts flatly. “If you want to live to see 905, you won’t be comparing me to my _mother_ –”

“Point taken, point taken,” the Doctor concedes, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture that makes her smile warmly again.

“So what are you doing this fine evening?” he asks.

“Honestly?” she says, and he’s bemused to see the color that rises to her cheeks. “Catching up on Downton Abbey. I’ve missed a lot, traipsing around with you.”

He snorts and then rises, slightly awkwardly. “I guess I’ll just… be on my way then?”

“Or you could stay!” Donna blurts out and then her cheeks flame. “I mean… if you wanted to. Just for the evening.” She lets out a huffy sigh. “Not that I’ve missed you or anything, but it is awfully quiet without you nattering on all the time.”

His face splits into a wide grin and he sits down next to her from where he’s half risen, scooching over on her bed so he can stretch out on the opposite side. “Brilliant. Let’s see what the Crawleys are up to,” he says happily.

* * *

An hour later the Doctor is thoroughly engrossed in Lady Mary’s quest for a new husband and Donna…. well, Donna is asleep.

Her eyelids had been drooping suspiciously low through the first episode and now she’s passed out, head on his shoulder, making little snuffling sounds against his jacket with each exhale. She sighs and frowns, flexing her grip on his lapel and sleeps on, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding at Downton.

Now that she’s not paying attention, he takes the time to study her face: the dark circles under her eyes that stand out in stark contrast to the paleness of her cheeks; the delicate rosebud of her lips, still gently pursed; the little wrinkle of consternation above her brow that doesn’t smooth out completely even as she sleeps. Her grandfather’s illness is wearing on her perhaps more than she admits, he realises with a start.

Not quite able to make himself leave, he stays until the first rays of sunlight creep in through her window and then he gently extricates himself from her, covering her tenderly with a blanket and hesitating a moment before kissing her forehead gently. With any luck, she’ll wake up with his lips on her forehead and he’ll never hear the end of it.

But, as it happens, she doesn’t wake up. She just makes a disgruntled little groan and turns over. He watches her for a moment longer and starts walking toward the TARDIS, looming enormously in the confined space of her bedroom.

“Doctor?”

He hears her call his name when he’s just about to step into the blue doors. He turns around and she’s smiling sleepily at him, her blue eyes hazy.

“Thank you.”

The Doctor crooks a smile.

“Come back tomorrow?” she mumbles, succumbing to her fluttering eyelids.  

He nods and grins properly then. He can hardly wait.

 


	16. XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place pre-JE.

##  20. You’ve also said some pretty mean things to each other.

“Never do that again, Donna.”

She whirls around on him as he closes the blue doors behind them and snorts. “What?! Save your life?”

“You could have died.”

“I didn’t though, did I?”

Normally, she thinks, that would be that. He’d skulk off to the library and she’d join him in a couple of hours with some tea and biscuits and they’d talk about something else and life would move on. Maybe he’d even thank her properly for saving his skinny hide. She and the Doctor can bicker with the best of them, but they rarely get into proper rows.

This time though, he turns on her, his eyes flashing.

“Do you understand how monumentally foolish you’ve been today?” he says icily, and it’s worse than yelling. His tone is almost mocking, condescending in a way that makes her blood boil. He’s never spoken to her like that before. “You could have destroyed that planet. That star system. You could have killed hundreds of thousands of people including yourself just to save _me_.”

“You do that all the time,” she shoots, feeling defensive. “You play God. You let thousands die to save millions.”

“You were going to let hundreds of thousands die to save _one,_ Donna.”

She bristles. “You’re more important than–”

Suddenly, he’s in front of her, his face so close to hers she can feel his breath thundering over her. “Don’t you _ever_ say that Donna Noble,” he spits, so vehemently she flinches. “Don’t you _dare_ put me before other people.”

“How can I–”

“You’re better than this. You _have_ to be better than this. Or else–”

“Or else _what_?” she roars, finally cracking. “You’re going to bring me home? You’re going to fling me out into space or into the vortex?”

“Of course I’m not–”

“After everything we’ve done together? After everything I’ve done for you? And now it’s ‘That’s it, Donna, time to move on Donna, because you made _one_ mistake and now we’re done.’ I get it. I’ve always been a temp. I’ll move on.”

“Don’t be a child,” he scoffs, his face ugly and contorted with rage she never thought she’d see turned on her. “I don’t know why I ever expect better than this from _humans,_ you’re all thick _,_ the lot of you and especially _you._ You can’t help missing the big picture because your _brain’s too bloody useless to see it in the first place._ ”

 

* * *

He doesn’t realise until a moment after he’s said it that he’s gone too far, that he might have done irreversible damage to their friendship. He’s spent months buoying her confidence, telling her she’s brilliant because _she is_ and she can never quite see it, and in this flippant remark made out of anger he can see it all torn down in her eyes. She never really believed him. And now he’s given her proof. Her face crumples.

Her eyes fill with tears and her lip trembles despite her best effort to stop it and she looks so full of rage and anguish that his hearts clench even though he’s upset with her.

“I’m not going to apologise–” she begins, her voice shaking. “–because you can’t understand how important you are. To the universe. And not that it matters, but to me. The only reason you’re mad at me is because I made the kind of decision _you_ would make. And you’re mad because you’d have the lives of those lost on your conscious and on your shoulders. But what’s another couple hundred thousand people when you have _millions_ of people’s blood on your hands Doctor?  How does that feel? How does that weigh on you? You don’t _care_ about them. You care about how guilty their deaths make _you_ feel.”

Her face has twisted into an ugly sneer and he can hardly recognise her. She’s _taunting_ him. Taunting him with the regret she knows he carries with him each and every day. It twists at his hearts like a knife.

“You don’t care about anyone,” Donna mocks, her voice growing stronger even as tears continue to run down her cheeks. “You’re an _alien._ ”

She says it like some kind of slur and something inside him comes crashing down. She’s always understood his other-ness. She’s never belittled his lack of humanity, never cast it to the side for her own peace of mind like some of his other companions, but she’s never been intimidated by it either. She’s always seen him exactly as he is. And to listen to her distance herself from him, to fall back into a caricature of herself that he knows she presents as a defense mechanism is more painful than he can describe. He feels like something monumental has shifted between them, like some key understanding that underlies their friendship has fallen away.

“How dare you,” he whispers, his entire body trembling. “How dare you say that I don’t care? You know I care. This isn’t you. You wouldn’t–”

“Wouldn’t I?” she spits, her chest heaving. “After all, I’m only _human_.”  

She gives him a sick, twisted parody of her usual grin and spins on her heel, striding out of the console room. He watches her go, listening to her sobs bouncing off the corridors.

* * *

She feels helpless.

Her words are ringing in her ears, repeating like a sick mantra over and over again. She can’t believe she’d said them. She can’t believed she’d been so easily reduced to such an ugly shadow of herself. And what had it taken? Just a row with her best friend?

Maybe she _doesn’t_ deserve to travel with him.

And then she thinks about the cold disappointment in his eyes, the mocking tone of his voice and her stomach roils all over again. She’s curled up beneath her duvet but there’s nothing to distract her here and even the hum of the TARDIS has begun to sound accusing.

She’s not sure if it’s a couple hours or a couple minutes but sometime later there’s a knock on her door. She considers ignoring it. He can’t throw her off his ship if he can’t find her, she reasons. Even if it is a bit childish.

Then the knock comes again, a little more persistently.

“Come in,” she calls, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

She peeks her head out from under the duvet and he’s standing silhouetted in the door, his face drawn. His expression is inscrutable.

“Doctor I’m–”

“I want to take you somewhere,” he says evenly

* * *

 

 

She half expects him to take her home. She wouldn’t blame him. But he opens the TARDIS doors to a sprawling meadow dotted with little purple flowers. There’s a dirt path running through the meadow that seems to meet the horizon beyond, rising sharply into purple-green mountains and a sky of deep cerulean. It could be the English countryside were it not for the twin suns suspended just overhead. Donna feels a sense of calm seep into her bones.

He strides out the blue doors and she sees his hand jerk to reach for hers and then stop halfway.

“I thought we could have a chat here,” he says mildly, and she follows him to the path.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, and she thinks for all intents and purposes they could just be the Doctor and Donna, visiting a planet, and momentarily forgets the reason for the dread at the pit of her stomach.

“It’s Yucorn, a completely uninhabited planet in the Surlen star system. There’s a low level telepathic field that influences your mood based on the weather,” he explains.

“But it’s lovely!” Donna exclaims. “Why does no one live here?”

“Everyone would get a bit tetchy when it stormed,” he says, tugging at his collar, and she suspects ‘a bit tetchy’ is slightly under-exaggerating. “They just decided it would be better to leave it in peace. Visit when it’s nice out.”

They walk for a while in silence and now that she’s aware of it she can feel it even more now; the warmth of the planet seems to suffuse her body, making her feel light and content. Wryly, she thinks he’s probably trying to avoid another shouting match by artificially putting them in good moods.

Which brings her back to why they’re there in the first place.

“Doctor I’m sorry,” she blurts out suddenly. “I was wrong to say all that, I know you care, of course you care, I’m so–”

“You were right.”

“What?!”

“You were right about… why I was mad at you…” he mutters, studying a bright violet flower instead of looking at her. “I don’t want you to be like me.”

“I don’t understand–”

“I don’t want you to have to make decisions for the good of humanity, Donna. I don’t want you to carry that with you. I don’t want it to destroy you.”

He sighs mournfully, still addressing the flower in his hands. “It scares me. You acting like that, so much like me. You’re Donna Noble. You’re bright and shining and you keep me in the moment. You have to be the one to stop me, and you need to hold onto your _you-ness_ to do that, don’t you see?”

She’s embarrassed how quickly tears spring to her eyes again. “I thought I was _thick_ …”

“Oh Donna,” he murmurs, finally meeting her gaze. Her breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes. “You’re brilliant. I’m so sorry I said that. I can never forgive myself. All this time I told myself I’d never bring you down again, not after that first time on the rooftop. I told myself I’d never underestimate you. And thoughtlessly, just because I was upset, at myself more than you, I–”

He’s cut off by Donna rushing forward to hug him, holding him so tightly she can feel the double-beat of his hearts like they’re her own. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s all okay.”

He hugs her close so that she can almost feel the oxygen being crushed out of her lungs by his vice grip but she doesn’t particularly care.

“I couldn’t have let you die,” she whimpers.

“Someday you might have to. And you’ve got to.”

She takes a shaky breath and nods. “Back at ya.”

He laughs weakly, but at the pit of his stomach something clenches unpleasantly.


	17. XXI

##  21. But you know that none of that really matters. You guys are friends for life.

She knows the gentle longing in his eyes comes from centuries of regret; from centuries before she was even a glimmer in the universe. She knows she’s a tiny blip on his endless, meandering trek through the stars. 

But at the very least, she’ll be a  _ bright  _ blip, if she has anything to say about it. 

And she does. Of course she does. 

It’s second nature to him to bury himself beneath the console when he’s feeling hurt. The mechanical clank of the tools in his hands is comforting, momentarily distracting to his racing mind. He lets himself lose track of time, lulled into pseudo-comfort by the hum of the TARDIS who can sense better than anyone that he’s not well, but is at least a bit more subtle about it than his companion– for all her merits, she is not exactly tactful. 

As if she’s sensed him thinking about her, he hears quiet footfalls and then, “Spaceman? You there?” 

He pokes his head out from beneath the console, hoping his expression doesn’t betray his haggard emotions. He realizes he’s failed because her face softens visibly.

“Come to bed,” she murmurs, reaching her hand out to him. 

He wants to reject her. He knows she’ll make him reach deep into the corners he’d been avoiding. But as if his body can’t quite obey his mind, he feels himself straightening out, untangling the kinks in his lanky frame as he slinks out from beneath the console and rises to take her proffered hand.

She squeezes it, and he can tell by the way she’s looking at him that she’s worried. But uncharacteristically (or perhaps characteristically, he muses, because she seems to have a gift for saying or not saying just the right thing), she says nothing. 

“You need to sleep,” she says after a while, her soft words echoing in the silent, cavernous console room.

“I don’t need to–”

“It won’t make them go away,” she cuts him off and he swallows audibly and bows his head. It’s one part of traveling he hates. He watches them wander into his life, with their innocent, blank-slate human minds but eventually they all have nightmares like he does.

“But we can–” she swallows, grabs his other hand with hers, “–we can help each other.” 

And they do.

He’s never had a friend quite like Donna Noble. 


End file.
